


Tous les Jours de Ma Vie

by PoeFaraday



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Murder, Ripper-like violence, dark!Aramis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 09:53:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3377177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoeFaraday/pseuds/PoeFaraday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Ah, but I’ve always heard that the faces of angels are more terrifying to behold than those of devils,” she replies, her head falling back and her eyes closing gently. “Are you certain you are not an angel, monsieur?”</i>
  <br/>
  <i>His moustache brushes against her collarbone, and she shivers. “Perhaps I am. Would you risk finding out?”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tous les Jours de Ma Vie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Donna_Immaculata](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donna_Immaculata/gifts), [mellyflori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyflori/gifts).



> This was made possible by the persistent and passionate mumblings of just about everyone on tumblr - especially my-whortleberry-friend, amynion, and Donna. You guys are the worst kind of enablers, and I love you for it.
> 
> Also, I have to extend a huge thanks to Melly, who was kind enough to give me the Murder Talk and help me work through the knots and give this Aramis more of a reason for being. This fic would not be nearly as good as it is without her extensive and frightening knowledge of methods of killing people. Also thanks to Nat, who reminded me that sleeping on sheets with come on them is super disgusting (I knew that, I really did), and who took it out of my hands when I needed a minute.
> 
> And, as always, thanks to Kelsey for putting in helpful little "and then things get REALLY awkward" messages. 
> 
> (Also. Please be gentle. Somewhere in this, Paris and London had a baby and that's the world this is set in. I specifically haven't named which city it's in for that reason. They have French names, they use French titles, but like... I didn't say it's Paris. So maybe it's not. Judge the actual story, if you will, and not the setting.)

_The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague._

_Who shall say where the one ends, and the other begins?_

Edgar Allan Poe

* * *

 

Aramis lives for the chase. The swirl of satin around a corner. The soft gasp of breath. The flush of color in the cheeks and bosom. He never feels more alive. This evening’s quarry is one Mademoiselle Celeste Doucet; young, fair-skinned, hair like spun gold. She reminds him of his Adele - she is the closest to Adele that he’s found since Mademoiselle Bessette was taken from him. Celeste had had her debut last year, but of all the suitors who paid court to her, she has not yet found one to her liking. And, of course, her indulgent parents could not endure her tantrums when they tried to force her into choosing.

Tonight, it is a masquerade; Aramis arrives in the guise of a masked highwayman, complete with a dashing cape of claret damask and a jaunty hat. Even through the masks, he can recognize over half the ladies in attendance. There is Madame Deligny, with the large brown freckle peeking over her bodice above her left breast. There is Mademoiselle Hebert, in the peach-colored satin, wearing her customary powder-blue ribbon around her right wrist. And there is Madame Belleclaire, whose pile of black curls is always the tallest in the room. Yes, Aramis knows them all, and with the careful placement of a genteel kiss to the lady’s hand, paired with the careful glance upward through his dark eyelashes, he can send any one of them back in time, flushing with the memory of an evening of wine, foie gras, and a trip over the moon, or of a hasty rendezvous in the carriage house, quick enough to avoid the inquisitive husband, but memorable enough to still bring heat between the lady’s thighs and to quicken her pulse.

In any case, his attention is on Celeste Doucet. She’s over on the far side of the wall, champagne glass in her hand, swaying absently to the tune of the string quartet. Picking his way through the crowd, Aramis meanders towards her, his cape billowing behind him. When he finally reaches her, he stands against the wall, looking the other direction as casually as possible. After a moment, he speaks.

“Mademoiselle, would you do me the honor of a dance?”

Celeste laughs, and he can tell she’s had more than a little champagne tonight. “A dance, monsieur? Before I even know your name?”

Aramis smiles, and a chuckle ripples past his lips. “Is that not the point of a masquerade?”

Again, a laugh from Celeste - she’s already had enough champagne to dull her senses, make every laugh and smile come easier. “I suppose you make a fair point, monsieur. But please...a name?”

“Aramis,” he relents, and as she raises her hand, he takes it, kissing her pale knuckles.

“Aramis?” she echoes, allowing him to lead her onto the floor among the other dancers. “That’s a curious name.”

He nods, bowing with the other gentlemen as the dance begins. “It’s what my friends call me.”

Celeste purses her rose lips at him. “Then I am your friend?”

“If you would like to be,” he replies, his grin cheeky. At the same time, his heart clenches.

Friends. He has so precious few of them in this world. At least, few true friends. He has Porthos, of course - he would do anything for Porthos. It had been Porthos the night Adele died. Aramis had carried her bleeding body through the streets in search of a physician, someone - anyone - who could help. In the end, he’d stumbled upon Porthos’s practice.

Humble was a generous description for the place; it was little more than a converted dry goods store beneath a column of flats, and his supplies hadn’t spanned much beyond the basics. Porthos later informed him that while it was difficult, for a man of his color to establish himself in such a prestigious field, he had been one of the lucky ones.

Of course, Aramis had counted himself lucky, that he had found Porthos that night. Porthos had not been able to do anything more for Adele than to ease her pain as she bled out on his table, but he had done worlds for Aramis. He had held Aramis as he cried, as he gasped for air as his world collapsed around him. When the time came, he had even helped Aramis prepare for the funeral. And he had been there every day after.

Celeste twirls along with the other ladies, grinning at him. “You’re a determined sort, aren’t you?”

Aramis shrugs one shoulder. “I was raised to never give up on my pursuits.”

“You would pursue me, then?” Celeste asks, her tone curious, playful. “Monsieur Aramis, I don’t know what to say.”

He pulls her close - closer than the other dancers have pulled their partners. Her décolletage very nearly spills over her bodice against his shirt. His fingers slip deftly over her wrist as he looks down into her eyes, cornflower blue, framed by the white of her mask. “Say you’ll come with me.”

In an instant, he can see it. He has her. The flick of her gaze down to where his fingers have left a gentle, burning touch against her wrist. The swell of her bosom as she breathes in. The bob of her throat as she swallows, suddenly overwhelmed. “But how, monsieur? How will we get away without anyone noticing?” she whispers, and he can feel the heat of her breath.

“Leave that up to me, my darling,” he replies. The reel concludes, and dancers and spectators alike applaud and laugh and smile. The crowd mills about, checking their dance cards and preparing for the next, and Aramis circles Celeste’s wrist with his hand, tugging her gently towards the fringe of the crowd.

Before she knows what is happening, cool evening air washes over her feverish skin, sending a flurry of gooseflesh over her breasts and arms and neck. A moment later, she finds herself sandwiched between the wall and Aramis’s firm chest. His fingers push through the curls of her hair, and his lips devour hers. A tiny sound of desire squeaks out of her throat. Aramis quickly dives to kiss the source, his mouth hot against the column of her neck.

She smells of perfume - of rose and vanilla. The scent fills Aramis’s head like a drug, and he can feel the erratic jump of her pulse beneath his lips. He licks at it, and tests it with his teeth, and her fingers fly into his hair, pushing the hat off his head as her nails scratch against his scalp.

“Monsieur!” she gasps. “Monsieur Aramis, please, someone will see!”

He pulls away, breathing hard. He slides the mask up over her face, letting it rest on the crown of hair above her forehead. Her eyes seem larger without the mask concealing her features, and there are light freckles spattered across the bridge of her nose. He can see them through the powder placed there in the hopes of hiding the blemishes. He thinks they’re beautiful. He loved kissing Adele’s freckles. She’d always giggle when he’d try to count them. Adele had freckles everywhere - across her nose, over her bosom, her shoulders… She had been beauty incarnate in his eyes, a proper Botticelli come to life. Venus, stepped right off the canvas. And now she was gone, snuffed out as easily as a candle.

“Come with me, I know a place,” he whispers before kissing her again, and breaking away to snatch up her wrist and lead her, giggling and gasping, down the road. Hat in his free hand, he thanks God that it’s dark, and that there’s no one about as they hurry through the streets. He pays careful attention to their route, making sure to avoid the main thoroughfares, in case of any bobbies that might be on patrol. He leads her to an alley, where he opens a door and whisks her into a dark room. He leaves her standing in the dark for a moment while he lights the gas lamp, bathing the room in a soft golden light. The room is something of a messy boudoir - a large bed takes up the corner, but there is no headboard or bedposts. Blankets of all varieties of cloth are thrown over it, as are numerous pillows. A table stands in the opposite corner, and on it, candles, an inkwell, and a pipe. The room has a faint, sweet odor, of opium smoked hours before.

Celeste turns around, and finds that Aramis has shed his cape, but his mask still rests on his face. She steps forward, smiling and untying her own, lifting it away from where it has sat on hair since Aramis put it there. “Won’t you let me see your face?” she asks, her voice like velvet.

He smiles. “I wouldn’t want to frighten you, Mademoiselle.”

“Frighten me?” she laughs, playing along. “Are you truly that hideous?”

His hands drop to her waist, drawing her closer. “Worse than the most tormented demon of Hell,” he purrs, fluttering kisses over her shoulders.

“Ah, but I’ve always heard that the faces of angels are more terrifying to behold than those of devils,” she replies, her head falling back and her eyes closing gently. “Are you certain you are not an angel, monsieur?”

His moustache brushes against her collarbone, and she shivers. “Perhaps I am. Would you risk finding out?”

Celeste looks at him once more, and her slender white fingers reach for his violet mask. “I have always been chided for my curiosity,” she murmurs, her blue eyes looking up at him in wonder as she unties the black silk ribbon. The mask sits in her reverent fingers, and she takes it away slowly as she bares his face. He smiles, wrinkling the thin scar above his eye. After a moment, she speaks. “Well, I have indeed been duped, for you are neither demon nor angel - but simply a man!”

“Simply a man?” Aramis laughs. “Mademoiselle, you cut me to the quick!” he teases back, throwing a palm against his chest.

“If it’s of any comfort, you’re a particularly handsome man,” Celeste purrs. Setting the mask aside, she places her hand over Aramis’s. “Better without the mask.”

Aramis’s fingers circle her wrist, turning her palm upward and kissing it. “You certainly know how to stroke a man’s ego, ma cherie.”

Celeste’s eyes twinkle, and she turns around. “Get me out of this dress, and I’ll show you that isn’t all I know how to stroke.”

Aramis’s blood boils, and he draws in a deep breath, deft fingers working to unbutton and unlace her gown. “Mademoiselle, I must admit, you aren’t what I expected,” he breathes.

“Really, monsieur. There is a reason why I have not chosen a single suitor to marry yet,” she replies, her tone childish and arrogant, if still playful. “None of them have proven worthy of my charms.”

“Have I?” Aramis asks with a winning smile, slowly working at the laces of her gown, drawing the moment out - sweet torture for the both of them.

“Would I have come here if you hadn’t?”

He smiles and pushes the brocade off her shoulders. She pulls her arms free, and the bodice puddles at her waist while Aramis tugs at the ties of her overskirt. Together, they work as a team to free her of her layers of clothing, and finally, she’s standing there in nothing but her chemise, corset, and drawers, and they have no patience to remove anything else just yet. “Monsieur Aramis, I confess I’m feeling a bit exposed,” Celeste smiles, pouting her plush rose petal lips at him.

“Indeed you are,” he replies, and he looks at her with a wolfish gaze. His hands return to her hips, and he all but carries her down to the bed, pressing hungry kisses along her neck and bosom. Her fingers are impatient, and tug at his waistcoat and cravat. Relenting after a few moments, he straightens up and allows her to push his coat away from his shoulders, and he tears it off the rest of the way, letting it fall to the floor. He returns to the task of kissing and biting her neck while her hands attack his trousers, and just as she attempts to push them down over his hips, he catches her hands.

“Not yet,” he murmurs, holding both her wrists in one hand, pinning them above her head as he kisses down the front of her corset. She writhes against him, breath coming in shallow gasps, her bosom straining the neckline of her corset.

“Aramis...Aramis please…” she keens, eyes closing in delightful agony. “Please, I beg you…”

Aramis chuckles, reluctantly letting go of her wrists. “Patience, my darling. Leave your hands there and let me take care of you,” he purrs. He draws her underclothes down over her slim hips, and he can see the thatch of hay-colored curls between her legs. As his fingers move to spread her lips, Celeste’s hips buck a little, as she gasps.

“Easy, love,” he murmurs, “Stay still for me.” Without further warning, he presses his lips to her bud, kissing it. He tucks his nose against it while his tongue moves to tease her entrance - slowly at first, drawing lazy circles and gentle lines over her soft pink flesh. She mewls and whimpers, squirming beneath him, and he hooks an arm over her hips to hold her in place. His tongue teases her clit, worrying it for a few moments before his lips latch on and he sucks at it. Celeste nearly flies off the bed, but the strong arm across her lap keeps her from going too far.

“Aramis!” she cries, one hand reaching down to grab a fistful of his hair to anchor herself on.

He murmurs against her skin, suckling on her clit for a few moments more before flattening his tongue and sweeping it over her slit in broad strokes.

Her breath is coming in short, shuddering gasps now, and he can feel the muscles in her belly quivering. Her golden head rolls back and forth on the pillow, her face strained in an expression of impatient desire, of desperate need. Her knuckles are bone-white as her grip on his hair tightens, and her lips fall open as she cries out with her release.

“Where… where did you learn that?” she gasps.

Aramis smiles, sitting up and licking the juices from his lips. “Have you never had a man do that for you?”

She lets out a breathless little laugh and finally lets her muscles go slack. “One tried once. He was nowhere near as good as you, though.”

Aramis crawls over her and bows his head for a kiss. This one is slow and gentle, his fingers tangling into her hair as he sweeps his tongue over her lips, gently parting them. She sighs against his mouth, trading breath with him, and he feels that exquisite rush - that thrill that rockets through his body the moment he realizes it’s time. His heart tightens. He thinks of Adele. The first memory that always comes to mind is her face, pale as watered-down milk, a small, deep cut in the side of her neck, blood bright against her skin as she died in Porthos’s office.

He shakes his head, as he does every time, and replaced that image with something else. Something fond. He pictures her in the grass in Provence, when they went for a few days to just escape from everything else. The air had been thick with the smell of lavender, and the purple of the flowers brought out her eyes. In his memory, Adele is breathless and laughing, her cheeks flushed with heat. He has just chased her to the edge of a field, where a sentinel oak stands. They kiss beneath it, and Aramis decides he’s going to see how high he can climb. Adele grabs at his ankles, laughing and warning him against falling and breaking his neck. He climbs nonetheless, settling for a wide, low branch that he then pulls Adele up to. They sit for hours, nestled in the tree, blissfully oblivious to the events that lie months in the future. With that memory in mind, Aramis takes a deep breath, sends a silent prayer to his angel, and looks down at Celeste once more.

His hands stroke down her sides, tracing the curves of her hips, and he arranges her so that she’s on her stomach.

“Ohh, Monsieur Aramis!” she sighs, propping herself up on her elbows and casting him a sultry pout over her shoulder. “How unconventional of you!”

He grins, one hand sliding up between her shoulder blades and pushing, encouraging her to rest her head on the pillow. She folds her arms beneath her head and arches her back. “God, you’re beautiful like this,” Aramis breathes, covering her body with his and kissing the nape of her neck. “Let me take care of you.” His hands move down to her knees, unbending them until she lays flat against the blankets. She sighs, her eyes closing as a relaxed smile stretches her lips. Aramis massages his palms over the plane of her back before moving to straddle her waist, his weight keeping her lower half in place. He cards his fingers through her golden hair. His eyes linger over her body one more time. He closes his eyes, replaying the images from the party in his mind’s eye. The glimmer of jewels on necks and in hair. The colors of the gowns, swirling and billowing with the dances. The strains of the strings floating above the guests. The flush in Celeste’s cheeks as she smiled at him through her mask.

And then his grip tightens.

With all of his strength, he turns her head until her face is buried in the pillow, quickly muffling any cries. As she writhes and struggles - in vain, of course, for his strength is too great for her to counter - the pillow stifles her gasps. He pushes hard, and there is only the feeling of her head under his hands, only the feeling of her hips moving beneath him as she tried to break free, powerless to stop it as a rabbit caught in a snare. Aramis knows he cannot break the hold until long after she has stopped moving. He can feel the muscles fluttering under his fingers, struggling to hold onto life.

Minutes pass - long, blissful minutes, silent save for the shift of skin over satin, as Celeste’s toes slip in vain over the sheets. Aramis waits a long time, his muscles corded with tension. He won’t ease up now. Not until he’s absolutely sure.

Aramis’s arms finally release. The tension rushes out of them so quickly he has to shake out his hands a little to keep the blood flowing properly. He stands, putting on his frock coat after tying a plain blue cravat around his neck. For the briefest of moments, he wonders if Flea and Charon remembered that they would be needed tonight - but he quickly dispels any doubt. He told them in person, after all. They’d be here. They’d be ready.

Just to make sure, he crosses the room to the door he and Celeste had come through and opens it, sticking his head outside. A gentle mist of rain has started to fall, and it turns the crown of his dark curls to silver in the lamplight. He looks, and sure enough, there’s the cart - the horse standing calmly, its tail swishing as it waits. Aramis knows Charon and Flea are tucked away nearby, just out of sight. He ducks back inside and rolls Celeste over. This is always the worst part. Causing the death isn’t so bad; he’s certainly learned to savour it.

Seeing the face afterwards, though… that was never easy. With gentle touch, he closes her mouth, and with her handkerchief, wipes away the drool that now dribbles down her cheek. He stuffs the handkerchief between her still-warm breasts, glad that he had not removed her corset. For a moment, he fears she might be cold in just her underpinnings, but then he remembers.

Cradling her in his arms, he goes back outside, placing her in the cart and pulling the tarpaulin over the bed of the cart. Soundless, Flea and Charon peel themselves from the shadows, and Aramis draws a few coins from his pocket. They’ve told him it isn’t necessary, that they’re doing it for Porthos, in exchange for the care he provides for those who can’t afford a physician, but he likes to show his appreciation all the same. Charon taps the horse’s flank with the long crop, and the cart rattles into motion, heading to wherever it was Flea and Charon did their work. Aramis goes back inside and makes quick work of cleaning up his room, taking a moment to light a fire in the grate. Into the fire goes Celeste’s gown, and, after a moment of reluctance, her mask. He wishes he could keep something - he always wishes he could - but it is always better to err on the side of caution. The room fills with heat, and Aramis reclines on the bed, resting but taking care not to doze off. As soon as the fire’s just about burned down to embers, he turns the water bucket over onto it, making sure it’s all out. Donning his hat and buttoning his coat, he douses the lamp and leaves, locking the door behind him.

Around the corner he goes, out of the alley and out onto the street. The walk isn’t long - he only has to go around to the front of the building, to the door beside the one that opens to Porthos’s office - but it’s long enough for his face to dampen with the mist. Opening the door to the house, he picks his way as quietly as he can manage up the stairs. He knows the hour is late. Likewise, he knows that all the other tenants are aware of the late hours he keeps, but he is courteous all the same.

When he reaches the door to his flat, he opens it slowly - he knows how terribly the hinges creak - and steps inside. The rooms are lit by one lamp, and the light of the streetlamps coming in through the window. He can make out a shape, sitting by that window. He knows that form, those broad, strong shoulders. A fond smile crosses his lips; if Porthos had been awake, he would have said something by now. Aramis plucks the quilt off the settee and drapes it around Porthos’s shoulders, noting how the poor thing is still in his shirt and trousers. How Porthos worries. As the quilt settles on him, Porthos sniffs and lifts his head, groaning.

“It’s just me, love,” Aramis murmurs, kissing Porthos’s hair. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

Porthos yawns and stretches, shaking his head. “No, it’s alright. Just had a little sleep there. No harm done.”

Aramis smiles and takes Porthos’s large hand in his. “Come to bed?” he asks.

Porthos looks up at him, bleary-eyed for just a moment longer before he sobers. “Aramis, are you alright? Is everything--?”

“I’m fine, love,” he replies, though he can feel the ache setting in behind his eyes.

Porthos rises to his feet, the quilt still covering him like a capelet. “Do you want to talk about it? About anything?”

Aramis reaches up to trace Porthos’s cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. Sometimes he wonders how he got so lucky, to have this man in his life. “No. Not now, at least. I just want to be with you.”

Their lovemaking is slow and simple. Porthos rouses himself enough to work Aramis open with scented oil, and Aramis’s whimpers and sighs are enough to turn his cock to wakefulness. Neither of them last very long - with Porthos’s hands all over him, and the stress of the night ebbing from his mind, Aramis arches his back after only a few minutes and spills onto their bedsheets with a soft cry. Aramis’s cry and the heat of him are enough for Porthos, who buries his lips in Aramis’s neck as he empties himself inside his partner. Making quick work of changing over the bed linens, they crawl back under the blanket without another word.

The two fall asleep in each other’s arms, and no more needs to be said. 

* * *

 

“We have a guest for dinner tonight,” Porthos informs him over breakfast the next morning. “I meant to mention it last night, but…”

Aramis cocks an eyebrow at him, reaching for the marmalade. “Oh? Who on earth is coming here for dinner?”

“Oh, and he’s not actually coming here. We’re going out. The three of us,” Porthos amends, stirring sugar into his coffee.

Aramis fixes him with a look, concern trickling into his chest like molasses. “Porthos, with whom are we going to dinner tonight?”

Porthos deliberately avoids his gaze, picking up the paper. “Inspector de la Fère.” He must see the way Aramis's face pales, or feel a change in the air between them as he has such a talent for doing, because he sighs and fixes Aramis with a look over the corner of his paper. "He's an old friend, Aramis. And he's asked for my help on some new cases that have come up. Something about my opinion on similarities in autopsy results. It'll be dreadfully boring, I know, but we have to go. And he asked after you, and I couldn't argue when he extended the invitation to you as well."

Aramis sets his jaw, his taste for marmalade now gone. "Porthos--" 

"It will look strange if you don't go," Porthos interjects. "I don't care to know the details of the things you do when you go out, but regardless of what they are, you can't refuse. Please, Aramis. For me."

Aramis takes a deep breath, setting his toast back on his plate and reaching across the table for Porthos's hand. 

"For you."


End file.
